


Bound Bow

by sailtheplains



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Comedy, Dibella - Freeform, Dremora - Freeform, F/M, Gen, Markarth, Slice of Life, The Companions - Freeform, Werewolf, if you were the Dragonborn, in-game shenanigans, shit that would happen, summon, sweet baby Dibella, trope: I was Framed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2018-10-10 05:34:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10430241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailtheplains/pseuds/sailtheplains
Summary: Also, he was hilarious to watch. He never broke face, it was all in how his eyes shifted and skittered. How they rolled up in annoyance each time Erik would bound up to him and throw his arm around his big shoulders and be all jovial and shit and he would just sit there and silently tolerate it, like a big grumpy dog. It was endearing, really.---------------------------------------------------[I don't know why I wrote all this down, haha. It was just a random thought I had because I just learned how amazing the Summoned Dremora are and they are your fucking wingman. With EXTREME prejudice.]





	1. The Dremora

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Pairing stuff starts in part 3]

She coughed hard--shit. She'd never used up magicka that fast before. This summon better be legit or she was going to fucking die right now underneath Markarth and get feasted on by spiders--fuck being the Dragonborn! Got killed and eaten by _fucking spiders_ in some goddamn dwarven ruins _after_ getting framed by some noble fuckheads. And now she was gonna fucking die and the only thing her brain could process was: _Goddammit, and that bitch Delphine is waiting for me in Riverwood._

 

And then time restarted or got moving or something because her hot cheek was lying against cold stone as the spell completed, reaching into Oblivion and plucking out the spirit of a defender, one who loved to fight. Who would be directed and would enjoy killing. Like catching murderous butterflies in the park.

A black, molted boot appeared beside her. The voice brought her sharply alert, hearing the baleful echo of a dremora say, "I smell _weakness_."

Her heart stopped. _Oh, fuck, he’s going to kill me._

But it sprinted passed her head. She sagged in relief ( _"Oh, fuck. Shit."_ ) and then pushed herself back to the wall, watching the dremora (he?) tear the giant spiders apart. Like. All six of them. At the same goddamn time.

"I will feast upon your hearts!" He roared. With complete sincerity.

"Holy shit," she muttered. "Fuck--no wonder that takes so much magicka." She watched him walk over to the spider nearest to her. And he sunk his fists into its blubbery flesh and tore it open. She nearly gagged, putting a hand over her mouth as he literally fucking ripped it open and let out that horrid pus-like mess from them until he found the heart, the size of his whole head. He ripped it out and gnashed it between his teeth. 

And after he'd done so, he came immediately back to her side. "I honor my Lady with their destruction." He intoned, about two feet from her.

"Holy shit, you are so scary. And so awesome."

"Not even a challenge!" He responded and laughed. Fucking laughed. But like he _meant_ it. 

"Oh my god," relieved, almost manic laughter bubbled out of her as she hurried shook her hands out. "You are hardcore."

She felt the cold sweat start to recede. These near-brushes with death were really wearing away at her nerves. She took a few moments to recover her energy and then heal herself. She checked on the dremora...uh...Stephen. Steve? Steve. Steve was roaming around idly now, looking at the walls, occasionally intoning things like: "I SMELL BLOOD."

Which inadvertently, kept making the Dragonborn want to start laughing. She summoned two magic-bound swords to herself. Thank goodness she was ace as fuck at whatever category bound spirit weapons were in. She should have gotten the bow, in retrospect, now that she was having to use it as a last defense because those fuckfaces at the Underkeep had taken everything. Shit. Good thing she'd left Lydia with all the stolen stuff back at the inn. Her bodyguard was exuberant but reckless--which meant that Bryndis had foung herself suddenly becoming focused on restoration magic. And that Lydia might make a better steward. Maybe she could do that when she returned to Falkreath and checked on how the house was going. 

She got up after rewrapping her feet. It made her think of Farkas suddenly, chuckling to herself. Big, dumb, brutally honest Farkas. Sometimes she wondered if he didn't overplay the "dumb" so that he could learn information--so that others would let their guard down. She wasn't yet brave enough to ask. 

Also, he was hilarious to watch. He never broke face, it was all in how his eyes shifted and skittered. How they rolled up in annoyance each time Erik would bound up to him and throw his arm around his big shoulders and be all jovial and shit and he would just sit there and silently tolerate it, like a big grumpy dog. It was endearing, really.

"Oh yeah...big guard dog. Also, werewolf....." she said quietly to herself, frowning down at her bloody feet.

"I sense NO such thing!" the dremora growled and then continued, husky, like lust, "but if I did, I would soak its blood into the earth in your name."

"God _damn_ , man." Bryndis headed into the tunnel. "All right, let's go. Remind me to ask about the Bound Bow spell the next time I manage to not die and somehow get back to the College."

Oh wait, summoned dremora--he would disappear long before she ever reached Winterhold. The summon supposedly lasted about two hours. Steve showed no reaction at all, just staring ahead silently. 

Somehow, she felt guilty. "Right. Sorry."

An hour later, when Steve had to go--he stopped beside her after slaughtering some disrespectful wolves. He stayed in place and roared, "BOUND BOW, MORTAL. FIND IT."

He vanished back to the void.

"Holy shit. I will. Oh my sweet baby Dibella, I will."


	2. The Companions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time I played Skyrim and I ran into Aela outside of Whiterun, I wanted to say a wide variety of things to her. But I could not. 
> 
> \--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
> He must be referring to _Alduin_ , no doubt. That big black dragon from Helgen. Why _had_ he been in Helgen anyway? And then Steve slammed into this dragon's gut, tearing into the scales with his daedric sword. Bryndis took off at a sprint. “ _Wuld!_ ” She blurred passed the dragon, to his other side, slashing at his throat, dodging sharp claws to blast the beast with lightening—

Bryndis staggered into the hall of Jorrvaskr. She sighed a little, breathing in the smell of wood smoke and roasting meat on the fire grate. 

Aela stood up at the table, arms crossed. “You look like you’ve had a day.”

Bryndis smiled a little. “Something like that.”

“How was Markarth?”

“A fucking shitshow.”

Aela laughed, pouring a tankard of mead and holding out to her. Bryndis sat on the edge of the table and took it. Aela leaned on her chair. “What happened?”

“Got framed, then arrested, then Lydia almost killed the Jarl. That was fun. Except for the part where I went to investigate the Hall of the Dead and someone in there has been _eating_ the corpses because, _mmm, mmm_ , nothing says delicious and nutritious like moldy rags and decomposing flesh.” The Dragonborn took a deep drink of the mead and then set it down to pull her surcoat off. It was matted with blood and mud. She could barely see the glow of the fire-resist enchantment anymore under all the muck. “I did finally manage to summon a dremora though. That was….interesting. You would have liked him. All he talked about was murdering my enemies in my honor and he literally fucking _ate_ a giant spider heart. It was so gross. But really impressive.”

“What?” Aela raised an eyebrow.

“He literally fucking tore it open. It was awesome. I almost puked. It was pretty great.”

“Sounds like he’d be fun to drink with.”

“Right?” She hitched a knee, balancing it on the tabletop and reaching to one of the platters to grab a hunk of venison with her fingers. Bryndis tore it apart to eat it. “How’s everything here?”

“Vilkas and Farkas went off to take care of some vampires plaguing a nearby village. One of them nearly bit Farkas. That was the last mistake it made.”

Bryndis sat up a little. “Is he all right?”

Aela did a slight double-take at her. She half-smiled a little. “Yes, he’s fine. He offered to go with you on your next job.”

Bryndis blinked, words stuck in her throat a little. “O-oh. Really? Huh. Well. Yeah. That—that would be. Uh. I’d be fine with that.” She drank the rest of the mead down and hurriedly poured more for herself.

Considering how rocky her friendship with Aela had started—it was kind of nice to consider her a friend now. 

 

 

 

“Well, that’s done. No thanks to you. Any reason you didn’t join in?” The woman barked, shouldering a long bow. 

Bryndis raised her eyebrows at her from the stone road to Whiterun. “Ha, what?”

“A true warrior would have joined in on an honorable kill.”

Bryndis snorted. “You three looked like you had it under control.” She crossed her arms, eyeing another woman and a massive brute of a man.

“Typical of any milk-drinker to say.”

Bryndis narrowed her eyes at the woman and turned to face her. “First of all, milk-drinker. What does that even mean? I’m not a Nord. So if that’s some specific local slang, I don’t know it. Second, how would you know that I am any kind of fighter at all? Just because I carry weapons doesn’t mean I could actually use them competently and you have no idea who I am. Third, I was just coming over the crest of the hill when I even saw the giant—let alone that it was fighting someone. Let alone three people, who I don’t know, who are all armed, who are all wearing different armor. How do I know you aren’t some local fucktard bandits who would turn on me as soon as I helped you? From the distance I first saw the giant, even if I had sprinted, I wouldn’t have made it here to even stab the thing before you three had killed it. And even if I had decided to use my bow, you three didn’t fucking know I was coming. What if you had jumped in the way and I’d shot one of you instead? Then what? The other two turn on me immediately for a fatal mistake? If you three had shown signs that you couldn’t handle one giant, yeah, as I got closer—I might have sung out and let you know I was there so you’d be aware of my arrows. But giants are big and slow and you three took him down just fine. Overkill doesn’t prove shit. If you’re mercenaries that were paid to fight the giant—well, I’m not part of your mercenary crew, am I? So I’m not getting paid for wasting my arrows. And if you’re this nasty about me just observing you when I was at too much a distance to help—would you have turned around and put an arrow in me for showing off? And last, I have more important things to take care of then your goddamn ego, lady. So fuck you. And if you two feel the same, fuck you too.”

The woman blinked at her. “You don’t know who we are, do you?”

“Fucking, duh,” Bryndis scowled. “But you know where I just came from? Fucking Helgen, which was—if you haven’t heard—destroyed by a goddamn _dragon_ yesterday. So I’m here to talk to the Jarl because Riverwood is in mortal peril while you fuckwagons play around out here fighting a giant.” Bryndis whirled around, stalking down the road.

There was a beat of silence and then the sound of boots hurrying on stone. The woman appeared beside her. Bryndis grabbed the hilt of her dagger, jerking away from her. “What!”

The woman inclined her head. “I apologize for insulting you. We’ll escort you to the Jarl.”

Bryndis flicked her eyes over the woman and then the other two as they approached. 

“My name is Aela. We are with the Companions. We are an order of honorable warriors, who show up to solve problems in the coin is good.”

“So you’re mercenaries.” 

“No, we—“

“You fight for money. I’m not paying you to escort me to the Jarl. So I’ll go my way, you go yours. I don’t want any trouble with you lot—so just leave me alone.”

“Was there really a dragon at Helgen?” The other woman asked. 

“Yes. It destroyed the town and butchered a lot of people.” Bryndis started walking again, shoulders hunching. She curled her fingers over her palms, feeling the blisters under the skin sting and pulse. 

The three Companions fell in beside her and didn’t speak as they approached the gates of Whiterun. The guard let her in with the Companions, no questions asked. They showed these mercenaries some kind of deference. 

“You ran all the way here from Riverwood,” Aela said quietly, just watching her as they walked towards the castle. 

“Yes,” Bryndis answered, voice stony and hard.

“You couldn’t have done that in less than a day if you were in Helgen yesterday,” the other woman said.

“I _did_ have a horse,” Bryndis grumbled. “But bandits like horses too, it turns out. They’ll jump you from the side of the road when there are a nine of them and one of me. It was either gonna be me or the horse. So I killed as many as I could and then one of them accidentally shot the horse.” If she listened hard enough, she could still hear the horse screaming in her head as it died. “So I ran.” She scowled. “And if you think I’m a coward for not pointlessly throwing my life away—fuck you, you weren’t there. Riverwood and Helgen are more important than my pride or your bullshit judgement.”

The younger woman exchanged a look with the man, narrowing her eyes. 

Bryndis looked up at Dragonreach. She’d never been in a Jarl’s palace before. Never even seen one before; she was Breton, after all. She hurried up the steps anyway. To be honest, she was on her last legs. She’d been awake for almost two days and nights, nearly killed by Imperials, nearly killed by a dragon, severely burned by that stupid fucking dragon, put up with a couple of fuckheads trying to feed her their propaganda about the war, went to Riverwood and saw people far more defenseless than she was….

She couldn’t just…leave them to be killed by that dragon if it came back. They were innocent. They hadn’t clapped her in irons. They were just trying to get by. And that guy Ralof _had_ helped her get to Riverwood. He had to hide and so, for the greater good, she’d scowled to herself and headed for Whiterun. 

Her head was aching, she was exhausted and her nerves were frazzled. She pushed open the doors to Dragonsreach—again, no one stopped her, as the three Companions filed in after her. Whoever they were, apparently they had quite a bit of respect around here. 

They hung back by some long tables as she approached a dark elf. She heard the man say, softly, “She’s right, you know. We should wear matching cloaks or something.”

“Vignar doesn’t like that sort of thing,” the younger woman said.

“Well, Vignar doesn’t realize that not everyone in the Empire knows the Companions on sight.”

“It’s something to think about,” Aela allowed quietly, crossing her arms.

It was nearly dusk when she finally imparted her story to the Jarl. Balgruff was a large man, big and blond—the poster image of a Nord. So she was rather expecting him to show her the same amount of condescending as Aela had—so it surprised her when he immediately jumped to, commanding the dark elf woman, Irileth, to send troops to Riverwood.

“You may stay the night here as a guest,” the Jarl intoned. “In the morning, I want to hear more about this dragon. Are you injured at all?”

Bryndis hesitated, feeling the peeling burns under her stolen clothes. “….no, sir.”

He peered at her a long moment. “I see. Then my steward will show you to a room and I will send food. Do you wish to pray to one of the Divines? We have a priestess of Kynareth and a priest of both Talos and Arkay, the Companions honor Hircine—if you wish. You’ve done us a great service—and I will grant you some new armor from my stores. It looks as though what you have now has seen better days.”

“Oh,” Bryndis managed, quietly. “Um. Oh. Well. Thank you, sir.” She wasn’t sure what was appropriate, so she just inclined her head to the Jarl in a short bow.

“This way, my lady,” said the steward, a squirrely-looking man with no hair. 

Balgruff stood, nodding towards the Companions. “Is there something you needed, Aela?”

Bryndis paused before following the steward, looking back at the three Companions.

“No, my Jarl. We saw her on the road and simply wished to escort her here. She did not know who we were, at first, and so our first meeting was rather terse.” Aela looked away from the Jarl to Bryndis, studying her. “If you should ever be interested in joining the Companions, come to Jorrvaskr. I’ll remember you.”

Bryndis blinked back at the archer. “Oh. Uh.” She glanced aside, a little awkwardly. “Thanks.”

 

 

 

And now, a few months later, here she was: sitting on one of the long tables by the fire grate, eating venison and drinking mead with Aela. She’d brought them back a dragon skull for the hall—of which they’d all been ridiculously excited about. They were eager to add dragon-slaying to the list of services the Companions offered. It drove the prices up, at least.

A door opened from the Companions’ quarters downstairs and Farkas appeared at the top. “Bryndis, you made it back. Good to see you.”

“Farkas! Hey, I heard you nearly got vampire’d.”

Farkas snorted. “Wasn’t even close.” He walked over, arms crossed. 

Torvar staggered in from the side doors with Athis. The two had clearly been at the mead from how the Nord staggered and the dark elf started to laugh at him.

“Whoa, Bryn. Did you go to the Dibella Temple in Markarth?” He bellowed across the room, listing towards them. He tripped on the stairs.

“Go home Torvar, you’re drunk.” Bryndis said around her tankard.

“I am home!” He declared, coughing into his fist and attempting to casually saunter up to them. He blinked his eyes owlishly at Aela. “Aela. Looking deadly today.”

Aela chuckled. “You always know what to say, Tor.”

“He’s very drunk,” Athis said.

“Oh, no kidding?” Bryndis grinned at them.

“Did you go to the Dibella temple?” Torvar asked again, leaning in to Bryndis. “Cause you seem prettier today.”

Bryndis rolled her eyes. “You were doing so well, Tor.” She put a hand on his chest and pushed him away. 

“No one can be as pretty as Aela,” he slurred.

Farkas raised his boot and kicked him in the knee. He toppled over in a heap.

“Why you gotta be so hard on me?” Torvar asked, sitting up on the floor.

“Go downstairs and sleep it off,” Farkas barked.

Athis leaned over to help the Nord to his feet. “C’mon, before Farkas cuts your head off.”

“He’s just jealous,” Torvar managed, staggering with him towards the stairs. 

“You should _really_ shut up,” Athis told him, smothering a chuckle.

Aela rolled her eyes this time. “That idiot.”

“It’s a good thing he punches better than he drinks,” Bryndis said, still seated on the table. 

“Did you get all finished up in Markarth?” Farkas asked. 

“Oh yeah! I brought back presents!” Bryndis hopped off the table and went to the main doors, beside which was sitting a large….something. Covered in burlap. She untied the rope. “I found these in the dwemer ruin under the city. Figured you might like them?” She pulled out a dwarven bow and a large warhammer. 

Aela stood up, hands on her hips as she crossed the stairs to meet her in front of the fire grating. Aela took the bow gently, examining it in her expert grip, flipping it from one side to the other.

“I replaced the string but everything else is genuine dwemer.” 

Aela gave it a few test pulls and put an arrow to it to test. While she fired at the wall, Bryndis glanced up at Farkas. “And…I thought you might like this, Farkas.” She glanced away a little, finding it suddenly difficult to hold his gaze. She offered out the hammer. It was beautiful, the head was lovingly etched with dwemer whorls and geometric lines. “I took it to a smith and replaced the wooden shaft inside the metal supports with ironwood. It’s enchanted too.”

He took it in his big fist, feeling the weight, touching calloused fingers along the round head. “I knew I liked you,” he said. And then, gruffly, “Thank you.”

“I found a sword for Vilkas, a shield for Njada—if she would even take it, I know she kind of hates my guts—and a couple daggers for Ria. I haven’t seen them yet though.”

“You did _just_ get back then,” he affirmed.

“Yes. I was so hungry I didn’t even go find Skjor and tell him the job was done yet.” She laughed a little. “I brought him back one of the dwarven spiders—I thought he might like having a look at it with Kodlak and Eorlund. None of them seem like ones for presents and I don’t want to make it weird so I thought, uh…” she glanced between Farkas and Aela, “….that maybe you two would know better than me…uh, when to—“

“I’ll give the spider to Skjor, Farkas can give the sword to Vilkas,” Aela said, waving a hand dismissively as she continued to study the bow.

Farkas followed her back to the bundle as she displayed her other finds. (Steve had carried them out for her.) 

And then there were several banging knocks on the door and it flew open. One of Whiterun’s guards staggered in. “Forgive the intrusion, Companions—the Dragonborn—my lady—there’s another dragon just outside the city gates!”

“Shit.” Bryndis dropped Njada’s shield and followed the guard outside. 

There was screaming near the market as she sprinted down the steps with the guard. She still had her boots on, thankfully, though she’d left her surcoat in the hall. Irileth met them by the Drunken Huntsman, coming from the other direction. 

“Where’s the dragon!”

The guard rushed ahead of them to open the gates as a blast of fire roared above them. Aela and Farkas appeared beside her. “You two don’t have to—“

“I said we should hunt together. What better to hunt than dragon?” Aela cut her off, dodging outside the gates with her bow at ready.

“Wow,” Farkas said, somewhere between surprise and reverence as he saw the huge dragon, scaly and pale brown-red. He lofted his greatsword. 

The beast smashed its tail into one of the lookout towers—it fell apart like blocks. Bryndis ran forward, drawing her shortswords and using them to channel magic as she summoned a dremora.

“Your mortal life will end!” The dremora roared at her side. “I will snap your bones and suck out the marrow!”

For a split second, Bryndis stared at him. “Steve?” She hadn’t expected it to be the _same_ dremora.

“I am STEVE!” roared Steve. “You bring me to this world to gorge on the blood of your enemies!” He ran towards the dragon.

“Oh wow,” Bryndis managed, choking on a laugh as she coughed hard and her eyes watered. It didn’t hurt as much as it had underground but using so much energy so fast was pretty harsh. But no time to think about it now. She ran forward, throwing herself into the dragon’s range. The guards, seeing her, the Jarl’s Housecarl and two Companions, backed up to give them room, switching to bows. 

“That’s dangerous magic!” Irileth said before she summoned lightening from her fists.

“So are dragons!” She called back, jumping under a blast of fire before flipping herself up and directing again with her shortswords, “ _Fus Ro!_ ” 

It impacted like a wave and the dragon reared back from snapping at Aela. It turned sharp, dark eyes on her. “ _Dovahkiin!_ ” He growled. “He knows how little you know, mortal.”

He must be referring to _Alduin_ , no doubt. That big black dragon from Helgen. Why _had_ he been in Helgen anyway? And then Steve slammed into this dragon's gut, tearing into the scales with his daedric sword. Bryndis took off at a sprint. “ _Wuld!_ ” She blurred passed the dragon, to his other side, slashing at his throat, dodging sharp claws to blast the beast with lightening—

He looked right into her before unleashing a wave of fire. It slammed her back into the wall as she struggled to raise a ward and then—

Then something grabbed her around the waist. She was certain to feel his great teeth snap down and cut her in half but instead, she was spun around. Bryndis felt a hand cover her head and heard a grunt—

“Farkas—! Farkas, no! No, don’t!” She struggled, trying to pull him away from the heat, blistering her flesh and probably cooking his inside his metal armor. 

He held her still until the flame died. There were other yells as more Companions ran out to join them. Bryndis didn’t hear them, turning around as soon as Farkas’ grip loosened. He sunk down a little, bracing himself on the wall over her. 

“Farkas?” His armor was searing hot to the touch. “Farkas!” She grabbed onto him, pulling him to her and fighting the catches of his chestplate. It blistered her fingers. She ignored it, shoving it off of him and letting it fall. He staggered a little, struggling to stay up, eyes wide and blank with pain. He was totally silent as he tried to reach for his sword. She grabbed his bloodied hands, holding them away. “Don’t—you’ll make it worse.”

“The dragon—“

She looked around his shoulder, where Skjor and Adrianna Avenicci were planting swords into the beast and Irileth was cooking it with fire. It screamed as it died. She grabbed onto him when the beast’s power siphoned into her like a whirlwind. It gave her that rush again, like she was lifting out of her own body, intense pleasure or warmth or something and then sank back to the earth. “It’s all right. It’s dead.” She made him sit down, opening up his shirt and cringing at the searing burns. 

“Farkas!” Vilkas yelled, sprinting towards them.

“Someone get Danica!” Bryndis commanded and Ria shot off to do so.

His twin brother slid to his knees beside Farkas. “Is he all right? Farkas!”

“I’m fine,” the man growled, struggling to grab for his sword.

“Stop it, stupid!” Bryndis commanded, grabbing for his wrists. “You better not die. Your brother will kill me!”

“I will,” Vilkas promised, leaning in to meet Farkas’ hazy eyes. 

Danica came hurrying through the gates, holding her skirts as she ran to them. 

Bryndis ran her fingers through his shaggy hair. “We’re going to help you, Farkas. Just stay still. I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry, Farkas.” 

“You’ve been a friend to me,” Farkas grunted.

“Don’t—“ She shook her head. “Don’t—you’re gonna be fine. You’ll be fine.” 

Danica knelt next to them. The priestess looked unconcerned as blood slopped onto her robes from Farkas and Bryndis. She flexed her magic, pouring healing into him, over his skin. Bryndis held onto him, bracing him up as Danica closed his gaping burns and wounds from the fire. 

“His armor is completely warped,” Skjor said softly, gingerly lifting an edge and then dropping it. “It’s still hot. Holy shit.”

“How are you not dead?” Athis asked, attempting to laugh but mostly just easing off Farkas’ cloak from where it had been seared into his flesh.

“You’re really tough to kill, huh?” Bryndis managed, smiling desperately at him. “You’re the toughest motherfucker I’ve ever met, aren’t you, Farkas.”

“My lady is enraged that there is not more of the dragon that she might butcher in your name!” Steve roared helpfully(?). Beside him, Irileth glanced up at the dremora, lifting an eyebrow.

Vilkas glanced sidelong at the distraught Dragonborn. He watched her place her palms on his chest, pulsing what healing magic she could into him. Her hands were raw and blistered, she was bleeding through at her sides and legs. She ignored it, focused on his brother. 

“My Thane!” 

Vilkas glanced up as Lydia came sprinting out of the gates. The Jarl himself was not far behind. 

“My Thane! Are you hurt!”

“I’m fine,” she said, dismissively waving a hand. “Do you have any magicka potions?”

Lydia immediately pulled out two, which Bryndis gave to Danica.

“I’m not sure there’s more I can do, Thane.”

“Please try,” Bryndis told her. “Please.”

Danica hesitated and then relented. “Of course, Thane.”

The Jarl surveyed the dragon’s cooling corpse. “Strip the beast down, someone go get Farengar so he can take what he needs to study the beasts.”

It was done, though when Farengar appeared with the local alchemist, they were redirected to see to Farkas first. Danica had closed and healed the major burns, using up most of her energy to do it. The wizard took over, finishing out the sealing of the wounds, making them older, scarred but healed. 

Skjor and Vilkas each put an arm around Farkas to help him stand. They started back to the mead hall with him. Bryndis fretted, watching them lead him away. 

“Bryndis—“ Aela started.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’m so so sorry. If he had died because of me—“

“Then he would have seen it as a glorious and honorable death, to protect not only the Dragonborn but the Thane of Whiterun and a fellow Companion.”

“But…I….”

“A pity you killed the dragon before I could see it alive,” Farengar mused, studying the corpse as the guards were gutting it, separating the meat. 

“Shut _up_ , Farengar,” Irileth grumbled.

Bryndis hurried away as soon as she could, returning with the other Companions to Jorrvasrk. Farkas was in bed. Vilkas was seated at the counter, drinking as he watched his brother. He nodded to her when she entered and offered her some mead. “Is he all right?”

“He just needs rest, Bryndis. As do you.”

 

 

 

Out in the hall, Aela glanced up at the dremora. “So she calls you Steve?”

“Yes!” He bellowed.

“Why?”

The dremora paused and looked down at her. “I do not know! But it is a good name! It is how I heard her summon me again!”

“Oh,” said Aela, just studying him. 

“I drench the earth in the blood she desires and also those of her allies. Who you desire me to tear asunder, I shall.”

“Oh. Well. Thanks,” Aela said, a little awkwardly. “Uh. So, you want some mead?”

“What is mead?!” Steve roared.

Aela managed not to laugh. “I’ll get you some.”


	3. Wolfhaze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Farkas/Dragonborn  
> \--------------------------------------------------------------
> 
> I often listen to music when I write. Tonight it was, **Wildling** by Peter Gundry: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IRY93xEjSfw
> 
> \---------------------------------------------------------------
> 
> All his hackles had come up, surrounded on all sides by the Silver Hand. If they killed him, they would either leave Bryndis there to starve to death or shoot her like a fish in a barrel. And inevitably, others would come to find out what had become of them. Vilkas would come. And they would murder all of the Circle. That had pretty much made up his mind about whether or not to transform in front of the new blood.   
> \--------------------------------------------------------------

“Poor sweet Cicero, with no tools and no way to fix what ails us!”

Bryndis eyed the strange man up and down, keeping out of arm’s reach. “….are you all right, uh—sir?”

The man turned a set of piercing hazel eyes on her. He was wearing a jester’s outfit. It was in a ragged state, blood-stained and threadbare. “My wheel! Can you not see?! It was on, now it is off and Cicero can’t wheel on without it and mother must get out of the cold!”

Bryndis automatically looked at the wagon. There was no one else there, just a huge box. “Your mother?”

“Well, she’s accustomed to cold. She’s quite dead!”

Bryndis blinked and stared at him. “Uh, what?”

“Mother!” He howled, flailing his arms at the wagon’s massive box. “I had to move her to a new home, a new crypt, a new place to oil her bones.”

She sensed Farkas tensing beside her. They exchanged a glance. “Oh. Uh. Well….” She hesitated, looking at the man. He seemed quite mad and yet….he seemed…almost familiar. In a way that was difficult to explain. “Can we help in some way?”

Farkas looked down at her, observing but staying quiet.

“No tools, no nuts or bolts or nails! But I have coin! Oh yes, the wrong and right metal! The gold! You’ll help us? Poor Cicero!”

“I, well—sure,” Bryndis said, a little awkwardly, feeling a stab of pity for the strange man. It was cold out here, even as he flailed about and squeaked about the wagon some more. Wolves would gather as night fell—especially if his mother was…well, freshly dead. Maybe the death of the man’s mother had caused some kind of break in his mind. She’d heard of such things. Such people were sensitive to magical energies, she’d heard. Perhaps he simply needed help. Perhaps burying his mother wherever he was taking her would help. “Let’s see,” she said, walking over to the wagon. The jester hovered behind her. 

“Oh sweet stranger. Beautiful, gentle soul. So wrapped in blood and violence. You’ll help us, yes? I will pay you, kindly stranger. My mother will look for you.”

Farkas came around the wagon’s other side. He was touching the hilt of his greatsword, watching the odd man closely. Bryndis took out a leather wheel of small tools and managed to pry off the cracked bolt. She took it in her hands. “Farkas, you know Whiterun better than me—can we get a bolt like this nearby?”

“Avenicci could make us one—but it would take time. I’d like to be to Dustman’s Cairn by day after tomorrow.”

“Maybe we could trade for one at that farm?”

So Farkas stayed with the strange man and Bryndis bartered with the farmer for a bolt. She brought it back and Farkas lifted the wagon’s corner right off the ground. He really was strong as a damn mammoth. He stayed squarely between her and the jester, blocking her from the curious man’s view as she knelt beside him, attaching the wheel and turning the bolt home. When it was steady, she stood, watching Farkas’ back while he ensured it was tightly cinched. 

“Oh, lady of the starry night! And moonwolf of the dark! You have _saved_ me! Me and Mother! I promise, should your name ever pass to me—I’ll give you a chance to escape first.”

Bryndis blinked. “What?”

“Your name,” he whispered and then cackled like a madman. “Should I see you, I will remember! And so will Mother! I won’t forget.” And then quieter, somehow ominous. “I _never_ forget a face.”

“We should keep moving,” Farkas said quietly. 

Bryndis nodded, unable to shake that odd feeling the jester gave her. “Right, uh—well, um. It was good to meet you, Mister Cicero. Uh. Good luck. And, uh—sorry for your loss.”

“Oh, it is no loss! She dies and died and will die. All for him! Him! The children as they cried! As they laughed as she held them under! All for him!” He slunk up to her like a cat, fixing her with his odd, piercing stare. “A little magic, a cracking jaw, a bat, a rat, and a crowing maw. Tie it up and hear the screams, the jester laughs from every seam.”

Bryndis glanced at Farkas again. “Right, well—uh—be careful out there, Cicero.”

And suddenly, he was too close, touching her face as he murmured, “I _know your name_.”

 

 

Bryndis jumped awake at the counter, grabbing into her tunic. 

Lydia and Vilkas were sitting at the bar across from her. They both glanced her way. 

“All right there?” Vilkas asked.

“Yeah, just a dream.” She looked automatically over to Farkas’ bed. “How is he?”

“I’m fine,” he grumbled from his cot, voice low and thin.

“About like that,” Vilkas said.

Bryndis didn’t hear him, she hopped off her stool and went to his side, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Farkas?” She leaned into his line of sight. She gently touched the edge of his shaggy hair. 

“I’m all right,” he said, a little softer.

Bryndis swallowed down the strange, intense….feeling that swept over her. Relief and exhaustion and sorrow and everything else rolled up in her chest like a ball of intensity. “I’m so sorry,” she said softly.

“It was a good fight and you would have done the same, shield-sister.”

That made her smile and she nodded. “I would,” she managed softly.

“The dremora you summoned brought back the skull. Apparently, he stole it from Farengar,” Lydia said, watching the Thane focus in on Farkas. 

Her Thane chuckled a little. “Is he still here?”

“No, he had to return a couple hours ago. He told me to remind you to get the Bound Bow spell.”

Bryndis chuckled again. “Aw, thanks Steve,” she said to the ceiling. 

“Let’s go tell the others that they’re awake,” Vilkas murmured to Lydia. The two left quietly.

When she heard the door shut, Bryndis looked down a little, then back up at Farkas. “I…was afraid you were going to die. You can’t do that, you know. Your brother won’t know what to do without you.”

Farkas watched her with those steady, smoke-blue eyes. “He’s the smarter of the two of us. He’d be fine.”

She frowned up at him, finally just giving in and running her fingers through his hair. “You’re not stupid, Farkas. I think you play that up so people relax their guard around you.”

The man blinked at her, looking a little surprised. 

Bryndis glanced away, drawing her hands back to herself. “I’m glad you’re all right, in any case.”

He touched her shoulders and leaned in. He said nothing, just embraced her quietly. He felt her stiffen, hesitate, and then wrap her arms around him. She grabbed him tightly, curling her fingers into his hair. His touch lightening, becoming gentler, non-threatening, just letting her hold onto him. He forgot sometimes when he was just drinking mead or fighting at her side or watching her back—she was the first dragonborn in a thousand years. She was one of the few who’d survived Helgen. Some were pushing her to either join Ulfric, as another user of the Voice, or to stand against him in a way that, as a Breton, she had little real reason to invest in it. No one would thank her. Few even knew who she was. She hadn’t told them until the story had spread through the entirety of Whiterun hold like wildfire. And would only do so when Aela finally just asked her directly if she truly was the one they were calling the Dragonborn. And then had come several meetings with the Circle about whether or not they could keep her as a member without possibly getting drawn into the conflicting politics that would inevitably surround someone suddenly having the mantle of Talos shoved onto her. What she could possibly come to mean to the people of Skyrim, if the Companions were comfortable standing at her back. For Farkas, it was simple, was she as honorable as she could manage, circumstances as they were? And the answer was yes. 

She had his back when they went to the Cairn, duel-wielding war axes or using them to focus her Voice or magic and her suddenly embarrassed shyness when she accidentally locked herself in the little side room and she couldn’t get the stupid lever to move no matter how she cursed at it. She’d looked so apologetic when he told her he’d get her out—

How it turned to startled _fear_ and she cried out, “Farkas!” Pointing behind him and shoving her arms through the bars on either side of him and blasting out a ward. It turned two arrows to ash.

All his hackles had come up, surrounded on all sides by the Silver Hand. If they killed him, they would either leave Bryndis there to starve to death or shoot her like a fish in a barrel. And inevitably, others would come to find out what had become of them. Vilkas would come. And they would murder all of the Circle. That had pretty much made up his mind about whether or not to transform in front of the new blood. 

And he tore them to shreds.

He still had blood in his nose when he’d changed back, taking a moment to clear his head as he pulled the lever to release her. He’d leaned over it for a moment and then turned around to pick up his shirt. His trousers were made of a loose, billowing linen, cinched with a cloth belt—something he could transform in and out of if needed. He’d headed back to the little room and saw her peeking her head out from the corner. She looked a little spooked and pale as she came out of the room.

“Farkas?” She’d asked, so softly.

“I hope I didn’t scare you.”

And something rippled over her expression and then she came to him, reaching up to touch him—and then didn’t, pulling her hand back to herself. “Are you all right? I mean—you’re…a werewolf?”

He’d nodded. “All the Circle are. It’s a secret to most.”

“Wow,” she’d said, still quiet as she examined him. “Well. I guess I always was a dog person.”

Farkas rumbled a chuckle.

She’d laughed a little. “Well. Let’s get your armor. Ha—that’s a clever design. I didn’t realize it was enchanted.”

“Falls off when I tell it to. I guess it’s sort of like bound spirit weapons? Only the armor sits on top. It's like the armor's shadow.”

“I suppose you’d go through a lot of armor otherwise.”

“Yeah. Sometimes magic is all right, I guess.”

She’d smiled a little. She’d watched him more closely after that, he’d noticed. Now that she was aware of the exceptional abilities of the wolfblood, she observed how it affected him in his human form. She asked him endless questions about it on the way back to Whiterun but had heeded his warning and kept quiet about it once they entered the city.

She’d met his eyes when he vouched for her to the others.

Sort of like how she met his eyes again right now.

It was weird how they crashed together and yet, also not. It felt like the next step of a strange path. One riddled with uncertainty but also the promise of something new and interesting. Their lives would be hard, short and dangerous. As the Dragonborn, even moreso. A lot of people would be hunting for the dragonborn. She had a spidery web of scarring up her arm from where she’d been attacked in Ivarstead by some cultists who were screaming about her not being a real Dragonborn. It didn’t matter who she was or if she’d wanted it—it was what she represented to people she didn’t even know. 

She was a still a person underneath all that. An imperfect vessel that fought hard to stay alive and did what she had to to survive. Just like him. Just like Vilkas and Aela and Ria and all the others.

Still, it was strange to feel the warm touch of her fingertips where they ghosted at his shirt. He reached up between them, taking her hand and leaning down to her. It was purely instinctive, bodies unconsciously reacting in that unspoken language that all knew but none could speak. 

He heard her breath in, fitting her smaller nose with his own, pressing back against the scruff on his face. He rumbled a little, hands going to her shoulders, smoothing one down to cup her elbow and pull her in. She turned, bracing a knee on his bed, moving closer. She placed her palm down on his shirt, warm like a brand. He could scent the slight difference on her skin as he pulled her closer. He sat up against the headboard, drawing her in to straddle one of his muscled thighs. He bent his knee, cradling her in the valley of his thigh and torso and she arched her back, strangling a soft sound as she renewed the kiss. 

That sound was strange, how it filtered into his ears and stayed there, ringing like a bell. He hadn’t exactly expected to feel the wolfblood rise in him, to rock his thigh up against her. To hear her make that sound again, high and faint and choked into silence. He put one large, calloused palm on her hip, felt the muscle in her thigh ripple. He looked into her face when he touched her breast with his other hand. He felt her nipple harden under the linen of her tunic and saw her eyes darken, just like the wolfblood knew they would. Did it make her think of the wolf, he wondered for only a moment before he braced her against him and, in one smooth motion, was shifting forward, putting her on her back. He knelt over her and she reached for him, fingers tangling into his hair. 

Despite everything, at the end of a fight, they were just people.

He buried his nose at her throat, breathing her in. His hands went to her hips, rocking against her before he went for the laces. He bit under her ear, felt her keen and hold her breath so she wouldn’t moan. But knowing she wanted to and was struggling to suppress it. That went straight to his cock.

She shuddered against him, suddenly touching under his shirt, sliding her fingers against his skin. He growled and grabbed her shirt, pulling it off of her. Then he was back at her throat, breathing in her scent again as his hands pulled off the band binding her breasts down. Touching her bare flesh broke her silence, taking a shaky breath and ducking her mouth to kiss him again. He pushed her trousers off her hips and she kicked his blankets away. She reached down, touching his thigh and shifting inward tentatively, until she brushed against the thick heat of him through the linen trousers. 

He strangled back a soft sound, feeling her skim long fingers over him through the linen. And then she was untying them, pulling them open, sliding a palm inside to curiously touch. He couldn’t seem to help it—he bit her shoulder this time and he _felt_ the moan that trembled out of her. Her hips jerked against him, grinding them together. 

Farkas listed to one side so he could brace himself on one elbow, cupping her inner thigh and watching eyes when he touched her. She was hot and slick there, already soaking. His cock twitched. He slid a calloused finger inside of her, working it into her. He watched her eyes close, head tilting back and exposing her neck in a way that made him feel hot and made the wolfblood perk up with interest. Wanted to _bite_ , leave a mark so all would know she was _his_ and if any thought to dispute it he would fucking rip them in half. No matter who it fucking was. If it was Ulfric Stormcloak himself, he’d rip his eight-damned throat out. He’d take dragonfire a hundred more times if he got to shove her up against the wall, watch her open up only to _him_. Hear her cry out for _him_. Fuck.

Farkas closed his eyes for a moment, trying to remember to breath. He dug his fingernails into one fist, trying to calm himself, shake away the wolfhaze. He felt a ghostly touch on his stubble and it coaxed his eyes open. She was staring up at him, eyes blown wide and dark. She was reacting so intently to his scent, to the wolfblood, and she didn’t even know it. But she took in his expression and drew his forehead to her shoulder, breathing in with him and gently rubbing his back. It was a warm, soothing touch and it seemed to help ground him, helped him get control again. 

He pressed a second finger inside of her and felt the spike of her pheromones. Felt how her cunt tightened around his fingers reflexively, searching for more. He slanted his mouth to her breast, pulling a soft, reedy moan from her as her nipple hardened. 

Like him, she had many scars. He could feel how the skin changed as he drug his free hand over her other breast. Some kind of slashing knife wound, a wide swatch, bean-shaped, that mapped over her ribcage—magic burn, likely. Burns from regular fire, likely dragonfire. It was like a map of a life across her skin. Much like his own.

He removed his fingers, felt her hips try to rise and follow—he flipped her onto her front and pulled her back against him. Farkas braced her thighs open with his own, grabbing her by the hips. He pressed inside of her, grinding against the back of her clit and watched her tremble from her head down to her toes. Farkas leaned over her, bracing his hands above her shoulders on the bed and throwing himself into her. 

Her fingers scrambled at the bed, finding the headboard and gripping into it as he slammed into her, riding up against her. He was so _deep_ and it felt _amazing_. He shifted again, hands pushing down on her shoulders, sliding roughly over her back, gripping her hips and slamming her back onto him before they ducked to her sides, underneath to her belly, sliding up to her breasts and using them to hold her to him.

He _felt_ how the heat spiked _hard_ in her, the side of her face buried in the bed, breathing hard as he fucked her. He ground into her, slower, harder, felt the moan start in her belly and escape from her mouth. She buried it in the sheet to muffle it. But he felt how she tightened almost unbearably hard around him. His palms anchored themselves to her breasts as she came around him in hard, clenching pulses. Her shoulders curled and her hands dug into his bed, writhing on the end of his cock. Two strokes more and he followed her, rubbing his spend into her depths and bit the back of her neck.

He collapsed on her, curling around her, pinning her under him. She didn’t move, didn’t seem to mind. He felt her reach up, touching his hair soothingly as he panted against her throat. His arms rested on the bed above her head. He felt her find one of his hands and lightly hold it with her own. 

He lightly kissed the purpling bite mark he’d left on her, as if in apology. He supposed that was what separated him from the wolf.


	4. Everybody Hates Riften

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, screw Riften.  
> \--------------------------  
> Bits and pieces about stuff a Thane might get up to  
> \----------------------------
> 
> Bryndis had broken the plain, red wax seal, unfolded it and wrinkled her nose. “It just says, _‘we know’,_ with a hand on it.” She turned the page for Farkas to see, looking mystified. 
> 
> \-----------------------------

Bryndis and Lydia sauntered out of the Bannered Mare. They were both a bit drunk on mead, on some raucous singing. And Lydia clapped that gross singer Mikhail right across his stupid smug face. He wouldn’t look nearly so handsome with his split lip. Bryndis had bought her housecarl another mead just for that and they laughed as the snide little fop nursed his mouth. 

Bryndis looked up at the moons to gauge the time—

A high scream echoed over the market, Bryndis and Lydia snapped alert in a flash, breaking into a sprint. The blacksmith, Adrianna, shouted, waving a mace as she ran into the street. There was a child fighting against someone—the one who wandered the city, Lucia—

“Oh fuck! Vampires!” Bryndis shouted.

Lydia slammed herself into the Master Vampire, Bryndis jumped on the one fighting to get his fangs into Lucia. The girl shrieked in terror when the Dragonborn blasted the vampire with her Voice. The monster flung the girl and jumped back. In a flash, the Breton was on him, slamming her daggers into his gut and spreading him open. Adrianna swung her mace and felt it tear and _bite_. Blood flooded over the vampire’s boots and Lydia shoved her dagger under his ear, severing the artery before slitting his throat to the bone. 

Lucia curled up, sobbing.

Ulfberth threw open the door and the handsome, burly man staggered out. He was soaked in blood, stumbling as he grabbed for a war axe. 

Bryndis dashed to him, diving on a vampire that had somehow been inside Warmaiden’s. She stabbed and stabbed and blood went everywhere, smattering and wet. The burly Nord slumped against the wall. 

“You still alive? Did it bite you?” Bryndis asked him.

Ulfberth swallowed hard, breathing fast. “Slashed me open but…didn’t bite. I don’t think.”

And then the guard arrived, Irileth was next, then the Jarl as dawn broke. Bryndis was sitting in the guard tower with Adrianna, Ulfberth and Lucia. Lydia was dozing at the table. They’d all been quarantined to ensure they hadn’t been infected.

The poor little homeless girl had three deep gashes across her face that were now red and angry with scarring. 

When the Jarl entered, Avenicci jumped up—but Bryndis just gave Balgruuf a wave. “Hey, milord.”

Balgruuf snorted at her. “Causing trouble, I see.”

“Well, for vampires. Am I right?” Bryndis wearily lifted a hand to clap against Adrianna’s. 

Balgruuf sighed. “No infection though?”

“None,” Arcadia reiterated from the door. “I’ve observed them since Danica healed them.”

“Why did none of the guards hear Lucia—this little girl—none of them heard her screaming but Lydia and I did from the market. But the guards didn’t? None of them saw the vampires enter the gates?” Bryndis inquired, watching Balgruuf. 

Balgruuf looked at the child. Something hard and dark went across his rough face. “Where do you live, child?”

Lucia curled in on herself. “Uh….nowhere. They…Brenuin said I should ask people for coin.”

Bryndis frowned hard, staring harder at Balgruuf. “She’s an orphan. Where do orphans go in this city?”

“We cannot track every child,” Balgruuf sighed, crossing his muscular arms. “Would that we could…”

The Thane bit her lip, thinking. “All right, for now, kiddo—you can sleep at my house here. Jarl Balgruuf, could I present a possible solution to Danica and Kodlak?”

Balgruuf paused, looking at the Breton thoughtfully. “If you believe there is one to be had. But the gold isn’t there, Dragonborn. We’re stretched from the war, from dragons.”

“I know, Balgruuf. But if we work together, I think we can come up with something.”

 

 

“Okay, Danica, not to pull rank and all, but I _am_ Thane of Whiterun and the Jarl agreed to let me confer with you both,” Bryndis started. “I appreciate you accepting the invitation but I need some cooperation here.”

“About what?” Kodlak asked, sounding merely curious. He had entered to the two women already in conversation. Danica, while steadfast and reliable, could also be sort of agitating to deal with. He could see Bryndis cloaking her expression in everything but her eyes. Her hooded, flat gaze said nothing and also everything about her thoughts on Danica’s stubbornness. And Danica’s inability to look her in the eye. 

Danica pulled at her robes next to the firepit in Dragonsreach, where Bryndis had arranged a neutral meeting for just the three of them at a small, round table next to the fire, stocked with ale, hot spiced wine . “I should really get back to the temple—war creates orphans. That is unfortunate but the temple can’t afford to feed and clothe every orphan in Whiterun.” 

“Danica, please—just hear me out. I was in Windhelm and found a tiny little girl sleeping on the street in a corner, hip deep in snow. Lucia was almost killed by a vampire the other night. I can’t take care of the children myself. But how can you Nords go on and on about your honor, while you leave orphans out to die in the cold when you could easily do something.” Bryndis crossed her arms. “I’m not saying that the temple should pay for all of it. The temple can’t afford that. Is that not correct?” The Thane said, gesturing to Danica.

“We cannot,” she agreed immediately. “With the Gildergreen dead, along with the war—we are stretched thin.”

“Bryndis, I know you have recently come to the Companions but our gold comes from our contracts. And everyone is free to come and go, we have never held anyone’s share. Kynareth willing, the Temple would be safer for orphans.”

Bryndis raised her hands. “Just hear me out,” she repeated. “I’m not saying one or the other. At least not at first. I don’t know much about raising kids but I know that they need protection from the elements just like anyone else. If we combine our resources and our efforts, you could take some of the children and teach them to, say: help gather herbs for the temple, make arrows for the Companions, something. And in return, give them a safe place to sleep.”

“There is an orphanage in Riften—“ Danica started.

“Have you ever _been_ to Riften?” Bryndis cut her off, temper starting to heat up her voice. “It’s a dump. It’s a horrible, corrupt, foul city. The adults in that city know that old bitch Grelod is horrible—but no one lifts a finger to help defenseless children. It’s a city of cowards. And that Jarl Law-Giver is a gullible moron, dumb as a sack of bricks. If that is where you dump children, then you must only think of them as garbage.”

“I said no such thing!” Danica looked aghast. 

“I hope not because Kynareth would be ashamed.” Bryndis looked at Kodlak. “I want to do _something._ I can front the gold to either build somewhere to house them or to prepare whatever you both would need. I just want to try and bring the two of you together—and even the Priest of Arkay, Andurs, if he’s willing. You have lots of influence and both of you are well-known through Skyrim. We should lead by example. Maybe if Whiterun is willing to try to help its most vulnerable people, maybe other holds will too. More powerful ones like Solitude and Windhelm. Where it would be even easier for them to do something but they choose not to.”

“You are going to pay for it?” Kodlak repeated, sounding not a little skeptical. 

Bryndis couldn’t really blame him. “Yes, I’ve actually collected quite a bit of gold in the last few months. And I guess it’s weird—but just…this bothers me. Because we could easily do something to help them. Kodlak, would you not like to have some whelps around to help Tilma and Eorland? Everyone dies one day, we will need people to replace them. Any of us among the Companions could die. We should pass on what we know, right? And any who don’t stay with us, they’d be prepared to enter the Jarl’s service as a guard or even a housecarl, an alchemist or a smith or any of the priesthoods.” 

Kodlak peered at Bryndis intently and nodded, still looking thoughtful.

“Danica, you are a priestess of Kynareth. Surely you need help gathering herbs or washing linens? They could help. And if they showed promise, you might teach them. Wouldn’t that be closer to serving Kynareth than just pretending that these helpless children don’t exist?”

Danica sighed, rubbing her temples. “I will send a letter to my cousin in Solitude. He’s an architect. He can help us plan it.”

“Good. Invite him here on my gold as soon as possible.” The Thane took out a leather pouch of it and put it on the table between them. “When the plans are made, I want to review it and then we can take it to Jarl Balgruuf. Sound fair?” Bryndis looked between the two until Danica agreed. “Good. Until then, I will sponsor Lucia. She can live in my residence here but she will go to you two to work or learn things. Even if it’s just working until you can get something put together. That’s fine. I just want the kid to have a chance to learn something. I don’t want her to end up a prostitute. I know you men don’t worry about that so much but for women, it’s a horrible place to end up trapped in.” Bryndis looked at Danica. “In return for your cooperation, Danica, _I_ will retrieve the Nettlebane dagger from the hagraven witches and go to Eldergleam Sanctuary to retrieve the sap you need to revive the Gildergreen. And Kodlak, from now on—my cut from all my work—I want it to go to this instead.”

“That’s quite a bit of money,” Kodlak reminded her.

“I know. And I want it to go to this. I will sponsor it until we can figure something out that’s more permanent. Besides, Kodlak—you, Vignar, Tilma—you all don’t go on jobs anymore. You’ve earned your rest. But you could pass on your wisdom to those who need it. You lose nothing but they gain so much.”

Kodlak finally stirred in his chair. “You’ve spoken like a Thane.” He fixed the little Breton in place with his eyes. “It will be done.”

“Thank you, Kodlak.” Bryndis bowed her head respectfully to her Harbinger before she looked to Danica.

The priestess nodded as well. “It will be done, my thane.”

Of all the things Bryndis couldn’t do, of all the people she couldn’t help—there was, at least, this. She wasn’t great with kids but she would never wish harm on them, she just didn’t want any herself. Lucia was off the street, safe and sleeping in a bed, making a bit of a mess but it was all right. Every day, instead of begging, she alternated between the temple and the mead hall. The dragonborn couldn’t be the mother that Lucia needed—but the girl flourished under the attention of many mothers and fathers. She learned about herbs and how to make arrowheads, Lucia studied the sicknesses of the people who came to Kynareth and how to patch up a wound after combat from Ria. She adored Eorland and his skyforge and it wasn’t long before she was begging to help him. 

Andurs, who spent all his time among the dead, was elated at this chance to talk about his work to the living. Bryndis was surprised at the man’s sudden and intense enthusiasm. He gladly opened up the temple and began teaching Lucia and some of the other orphans to read. 

A month later, the architect arrived and plans presented to the Jarl. Bryndis sold her second horse (a gift from the Jarl of Dawnstar, Skald, who, while sometimes funny, he was mostly an asshole), five full suits of armor, some artifacts from a Nord ruin and three fistfuls of precious gems to pay for the building. She didn’t mind. Honestly, Bryndis watched the day that the architect began to plot the lines for the new longhouse and felt a bit strange. She felt….good. Like she could actually _do_ something for people. Not just fight dragons. But actually _do_ something. Something more tangible. 

Bryndis had never been able to really do that before. Like this. She had always been very poor. All the guards called her _Thane_ now. Kodlak and Danica and Andurs all called her the title as well. It was….just a bit strange, adjusting to how her life had changed. The last few months had been….insane. Just, completely beyond what she’d ever imagined she’d find in Skyrim. 

But now she could really _help_ people. And something about that feeling was a little overwhelming for some reason. She could never go back to the Bryndis who slipped through the trees, avoiding other people for the most part, sliding in with a group of tough-looking men and women to cross the border. That girl was shyer, younger, and gone. It seemed like a lifetime ago. 

Vilkas was standing on her left next to Lydia. He said, “You know, I was skeptical, I admit. But if this had been around when Farkas and I were young, well.” The man frowned, shaking his head. “We were saved by a Companion from necromancers when we were children.” The man shrugged awkwardly. “So. Well.” And then he grunted and trailed off. 

Bryndis caught Lydia look sidelong at Vilkas, studying him intently. That made the dragonborn smile a little and look away. 

 

 

But seriously, fuck Riften. Bryndis hated Riften. 

It was partially why she was back. The orphanage was dark but for one lonely lantern, peering out into the night. She slipped inside and lowered a carved wooden mask that obscured her face before creeping into the front room. Children were in bare beds. It was silent but for the fire and soft sobbing that Bryndis followed to a door that smelled like blood. 

Opening it, a child looked up fearfully but Bryndis put a finger to her wooden lips. She left the door unlocked and cracked before slipping into Grelod’s chambers. 

Bryndis wasn’t usually the type to kill a sleeping victim. But Grelod was a coward, she’d been around earlier that day just observing and listening. Constance was a coward too. But at least Constance didn’t hurt them. 

She thrust forward before she could talk herself out of bothering with it. Her dagger lanced under the chin, severing the bitch’s windpipe. She gurgled softly until Bryndis covered her face with a pillow. The dragonborn was out the window in a twinkling, letting the hag bleed out silently. 

She felt a strange twinge in the back of her mind, an odd chill, like one might find in a damp cave. Dark cave, with _eyes_ looking back. _Eyes_ skulking around the pedestal, the glass, the case, the candle and then darkness—

The Breton shook herself, scurrying to duck out of sight.

Eventually, she would forget about the unease of killing the old woman, amidst all the other things happening in her now very chaotic life, for about a month. And then she got a letter in Whiterun. 

Bryndis had broken the plain, red wax seal, unfolded it and wrinkled her nose. “It just says, _‘we know’,_ with a hand on it.” She turned the page for Farkas to see, looking mystified. 

“We know what?” Farkas asked.

His Thane shrugged. “No idea. I guess I should say: Aha! I also know things. Sometimes. Four fingers and a thumb. ” She wiggled them in imitation of the handprint and then folded up the paper to put it in her satchel. “Well. I’m sure this won’t come back to haunt me.” She peered at the courier. He had the square jaw of an Imperial about him. “Who sent this?”

He shrugged. “Creepy guy, black cloak, paid me a lot of money to make sure I got it to you in person, in Whiterun.”

“Hmm,” Bryndis mused, once the courier was off, “so someone is watching this place.”

“Or you,” Farkas grumbled. 

“I guess that’s not so surprising. I should probably put wards up inside Breezehome. I just—“ Bryndis sighed. “I don’t know of any hand insignia. The Silver Hand doesn’t, right?”

“Not that I know of,” Farkas answered. “But I’ll check with Aela and Skjor. It could be a mercenary group? Or maybe a noble you might have annoyed?”

“Well, there’s always that Black-Briar bitch from Riften.”

Farkas snorted. “And the Silver-bloods in Markarth.”

Bryndis chuckled. “Yeah, they definitely don’t like me.” The mage rubbed her forehead. “So I suppose this could be a lot of people. This Dragonborn shit—I didn’t want it to interfere with you guys.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Farkas grumbled. “Skjor and Aela both are harsh sometimes but they respect you. Even if you couldn’t be part of the Companions because of politics, we would welcome you back anytime with honor.”

“Oh, I’ll be your dragon consultant.”

 

 

Bryndis was on her way to Morthal by then, to view other keeps. Balgruuf had asked that, as Thane of Whiterun, she might go to each capitol and speak with the Jarl and impart her story to them of both Helgen and Whiterun. So now traveling but technically on official business for the Jarl, meant that she was outfitted with a handsome cloak. On the left breast of the overcape, Whiterun’s golden charger was embroidered with glinting sun-dappled strands. And over the top of the silk pat of thread was a broach, also in the shape of a charger’s head with gleaming diamonds for eyes and held in place with a burnished gold pin. She was also given a horse and a letter from Jarl Balgruuf, introducing his Thane and imploring the Jarls of the other holds to listen to her story. The Jarl and his steward told her what they knew about the other Jarls. 

Balgruuf couldn’t seem to help but chuckle when he said, “You ought to go to Morthal and see Idgrod. You’d like her, I think. Regardless of which side she prefers, I think you will appreciate her direct nature.”


End file.
